Hold On To the Night
by RennFlight
Summary: She's tired of holding on, and he's tired of letting go.
1. Of Creaking Stairs and Shining Stars

Hold On 'Til the Night

Indigo feels such a strong desire to pull her cobalt-blue hair right out, or maybe to scream at the top of her lungs. Instead, she paces – back and forth, back and forth – across her small attic room, the peaked roof above her lowering to meet the floor at the edges of her room, forcing her to duck her head as she moves. The floor itself, old wooden floorboards, creaks slowly as she crosses the small space, and sometimes she thinks she should stop, be quiet, because maybe her stepmom, Stacy –_ why does she have to be such a light sleeper? _Indigo angrily questions in her mind, frustrated at something the other woman can't control because of all the other things that she can – might wake up, and that would be bad, because then Indigo would probably be grounded for a week.

Indigo sighs heavily several times, trying to relieve the pressure on her chest, before finally pivoting on her heel one last time, mind made up, as she grabs her soft and worn black leather jacket and sliding it on over her purple night shirt, and tucking the edges of her blue-and-white plaid sweatpants into her combat boots. With that, she's climbing down the white-washed ladder and down a narrow corridor to get to the staircase, which she quietly creeps down. The third step from the bottom creaks, long and loud, and Indigo can hear someone getting out of bed – there's the sound of Stacy's feet landing softly on the carpeted floor, and her lamp switching on with a distinctive click – and Indigo lets out a muffled curse before racing the rest of the way to the front door, which she throws open.

Indigo dashes out into the night, the dark sky above scattered with coldly shining stars that watch the small figure below scamper through empty streets.


	2. Of Strange Boys and Brick Walls

The streetlights above flicker as the weight of the darkness all around presses in on them; Indigo can feel it too. Her breaths come in short pants, and her lungs begin to burn after a while, so she stops and leans against a rough brick wall.

And then Indigo realizes that she has absolutely no clue where she is. In response to this, she just shoves her hands into her pockets, and leans her head back until the crown of her skull is pressed against the bricks. _Well, _she thinks, _until I find my way home,_ _at least I get some time to myself. _ Of course, it would be then that a man's voice interrupts her wry reverie, startling her. Indigo's dark eyes fly open and meet his cerulean blue ones.

"Hey," he greets, and leans against the wall next to her. Indigo shifts warily, before answering.

"Hey." His eyes, meanwhile, are locked on hers, and it's starting to unnerve her. _He hardly blinks!_ She mentally exclaims, eyeing him. He's wearing a simple dark green sweatshirt, hood up over messy blond curls, and dark jeans. And he's barefoot! Indigo shivers in sympathy; autumn nights in LA aren't exactly frigid, but she sure wouldn't be walking around barefoot, especially considering all the broken glass. What with that, the various tears in his clothes, and the smudge of dirt on his high cheekbones, Indigo wonders if he's homeless.

This, of course, leads to the worry that the odd staring might be him considering whether or not Indigo's worth stealing from. She's not; all she's got on her is one battered silver cell phone, and her monster-faced wallet. And that only has a couple of tens and one twenty in it, as well as a few coins, which Indigo is currently praying don't jingle just now.

"Who're you?" he asks, yet again breaking Indigo out of her thoughts.

"Who're _you_?" she shoots back, raising a pierced eyebrow questioningly.

He nods in appreciation. "Peter."

Indigo lets a faint quirk in the corners of her mouth take its place, lending her a faint smile. "My name's Indigo Montoya."

He smiles, and it's brilliant, all white teeth and innocent joy. "That suits you. I mean, your hair color is … blue …"

"My hair is cobalt, not indigo," she scoffs, but smiles too. There's still something off about him, but Indigo's met some shady characters, and he doesn't have that same hard exterior, that reluctance to talk, that creepy stare … Well, his stare is somewhat creepy, but not like that. And his bumbling awkwardness now lend him certain credibility that no thief or murderer has. Even now, he's mumbling, over his mistake in the color of her hair. Indigo laughs at this Peter for his current inability to speak in coherent sentences.

"It's okay," she mutters, rolling her eyes. There's a sudden stilted silence as both teens fumble for something to say, before she speaks up again. "What're you doing here, anyway?" she asks, curious.

"Dunno. Saw you running, thought it odd." _He's not telling me anything,_ Indigo thinks. _Not really._ "What about you?"

"Midnight jog." She replies promptly. _But then again, neither am I._


	3. Of Streetlight People

After another silence sits between them, the two decide, as one, to start walking. They do, propelling themselves from the wall in unison, and proceeding to walk down across the pavement side by side. Indigo has always been quiet, but even she seems loud in comparison to Peter, whose footsteps and breaths she cannot hear. In fact, every so often, Indigo must glance at him from under the fringe of her dark lashes, and make sure that he remains within her peripheral view, to ensure that he's still there. Of course, that doesn't prove that he's not a hallucination, and since nobody's around to help there, she'll just have to assume that he's real.

It doesn't hurt that his hand, warm and rough, keeps brushing against hers.

"So, Peter …" Indigo begins, and somewhere, a church bell tolls twelve times. Somehow, this seems significant. "Do you have a last name, or is it just 'Peter'?"

"Just Peter," he answers quickly, and when Indigo turns her questioning gaze on him, he just looks down at his feet.

"Okay … that's kind of weird. Do you not want to tell me, or do you seriously not have a name?" Indigo's a bit unnerved, but then again, not everyone is as up-front or fearless as she. And anyway, this boy does have a look about him when she asks too much. He shies away from her probing looks, and does his best not to answer her questions honestly. "Look, it's fine if you don't want to tell me."

He sighs. "No, I mean it. I … don't exist, according to government records. Or, rather, I'm dead. And I've been dead for the last seventeen or so years."

"Why do they think you died when you were a baby?" Now Indigo is filled with curiosity, because despite the fact that she always does her best to associate with people her stepmom doesn't want her to, none of them come close to having the aura of mystery this boy does.

However, Peter does not offer Indigo any respite from her burning curiosity. After a pregnant pause, he says, "Do we have to talk about this? I mean, it's not exactly like you're sharing anything with me, so I don't really have to, do I?"

"If it makes you feel better, then I will share!" Indigo exclaims indignantly. "Well, I was born in San Francisco on September eighth, to Isabella Montoya and Davis Montoya. My mom died when I was eight years old, and my dad moved me and him from the apartment that'd been my home my whole life. We moved first to New York for four years, then to London for two years, and then Paris for a year and a half, and to here, LA, where we've been for the last six months or so." Indigo takes a deep breath. "He remarried in Paris, to a woman named Stacy Strauss. She hates everything about me, from the double piercing in my ear to the way I talk to the people I hang out with. But I don't care, because I hate her, too. Just like I hate my father."

Peter gives Indigo a sideways look, before commenting. "You're very angry, you know?" He offers a crooked smile and Indigo returns it. He reaches out a hand and Indigo takes it.

"Yeah, I know."


	4. Of Intervals and Excursions

Time is frozen. Well, that's what it feels like to Indigo, but in reality, time passes just as it always has, and before she knows it – all too soon! – the rosy fingers of dawn are seeping into a now light blue sky. The horizon is stained with a brilliant assortment of colours that stretch and creep and Indigo can't help but become aware of this as heat spreads across her face, the warmth of the sun caressing her skin.

A word Stacy would be ashamed to hear slips past Indigo's lips. "Sorry, Peter, but I have to get home _now_, before Stacy notices that I'm gone!" She starts to tug her hand from Peter's, but then realizes that it's rather pointless, since she has no idea where she is anymore, having wandered with Peter all night.

Even thinking of it brings a smile to Indigo's cherry-hued lips, as she recalls hours spent with him, sometimes speaking or laughing about something they had witnessed, but more often in companionable silence. They wandered a long way – to bowling alleys (there's one hidden in the bus station, did you know?) and movie theaters (apparently, Peter quite liked black-and-white films from the 1930's) they went, seeking out all the hidden places of their city.

"The only problem is," Indigo began again, holding still as Peter's blue gaze searches her. "I have no idea how to get there."

Peter simply laughed. "Don't worry. I can get you back to the brick wall." And, of course, Indigo knows exactly which brick wall he means.

After that, the pair turns around and dash back, retracing their steps, laughing madly, as the sun rises and arcs into the sky. The world around them is growing brighter, and every skyscraper starts reflecting and shimmering until everything is light and angles and blue sky – just another day in LA. Everything is the same as it always was, always is, and always will be.

Well, almost everything.

When Indigo and Peter reach the brick wall, she merely flashes him a brilliant smile before running off again, her fingers slipping from his in a heartbeat. But if one could slow down time, they would see that even though Indigo was moving fast, she prolonged her connection to Peter, their fingers entwined until only the tips of their fingers could reach … and then nothing.


End file.
